


He's Getting Ready For The Show (He's Going To The Carnival Tonight On Desolation Row)

by personalized_radio



Series: I'm Not On Desolation Row [1]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: A lot - Freeform, A lot of kissing, Age Difference, Arrested, Barely Legal but Legal Non The Less, Desolation Row AU, Good Friends Who Help Bros Out, Halloween mention, I'm Not Okay 'verse, M/M, No Smut, Punk Rocker! Gerard, Rebellious! Frank, maybe possibly implied pre-Killjoys 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-20 23:33:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2447153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/personalized_radio/pseuds/personalized_radio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desolation Row! AU and I'm Not Okay! AU fusion<br/>It's Frank's seventeenth fucking birthday, the Halloween crowd is dead and he's gonna spend the rest of his life doing something he hates to make his mom proud, because he sure as hell won't be making her proud through his atheistic ways. The show's only two hours away, in New York, and so what if rock shows are illegal in New York now? So what if he and Dewees are underage? He just wants to have a good time. Possibly with that singer. Definitely with that singer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's Getting Ready For The Show (He's Going To The Carnival Tonight On Desolation Row)

**Author's Note:**

> so there was this sort of prompt thing i saw on askfrnk.tumblr.com but i can't find it, but it basically was like 'Desolation Row! Gerard and School Boy! Frank' and School = I'm Not Okay 'verse so uh, it's sort of a fusion. Y/Y? I hope you like it ;0;
> 
> EDIT: FOUND THE PROMPT/POST YES  
> http://askfrnk.tumblr.com/post/98178436135/different-anon-someone-needs-to-write-a-desolation

Frank was a good boy. He was a good, Catholic boy. He was a good, Catholic boy who was not going to sneak out on his birthday, no matter what Dewees said.  
"Come on, man." James hissed from below his window.  
"My fuckin' pants are stuck!" Frank snapped back as quietly as he could, so he wouldn't wake up his mom. It was dark, the moon barely visible in the sky and there weren't even any more groups of pre-teens being dicks, let alone any trick-or-treaters left running around.The neighborhood was quiet, dark and cold with an early draft. One would think the whole neighborhood was asleep, if it hadn't been for Dewees whisper-shouting unhelpful advice and Frank yanking at the part of his pants caught on a nail.  
"Shit, _fuck_ these fucking jeans, I swear to _God_ ," He cursed and yanked at the material hard and then again, until there was a ripping sound.  
"Oh fuck, Frankie!" Dewees nearly squeaked out from his vantage point nearly two stories below Frank, watching helplessly as he fell _out of the window_ and just barely clung to the thick branch of the tree he'd been trying to jump into in the first place. His leg was bleeding from scraping against the tree and his pants were ripped even worse along his already fucked up knees, but he was _out_ , so fuck if a few new scratches really mattered in the long run. As long as his mom didn't notice them, he'd be right as fuckin' rain. He shut his window a little so it wasn't immediately visibly open and shimmed down the rough tree as fast as he could.  
"We are in so much trouble." He gasped out as they hurried to Dewees' car, parked two houses down. He was limping a little, his leg sore from scraping it so hard on the tree, so he was leaning on Dewees for support and their slowed pace was making his heart beat faster than his most recent near-death experience.  
"Shut up, Frank." Dewees rolled his eyes, "We're sneaking out for your seventeenth birthday, and you're gonna like it. You've never snuck off to New York before and once you tell your mom about that scholarship to that fuckin' business school, you'll never get the chance to do it again. YOLO, my man."  
"Look, I'm just sayin'," Frank said as the car started and they drove quietly out of the dark neighborhood, "I fuckin' love Jersey gigs, but its illegal in New York, especially for two underage Jersey kids."  
"Dont be a pussy." Dewees said, "Its a Jersey band. That one, I gave you their cover of Desolation Row."  
"What, really!? I fucking love that cover!"  
"I know." Dewees rolled his eyes, "You learned the song and played it on my guitar for a week straight."  
"Shit, man, why didn't you just say that. Step on it!"  
"What's with the change in attitude?" Dewees asked, stepping on the pedal a little harder as he merged.  
"You're right, man." Frank shrugged a little, his grin dimming,"After this semester, I'm gonna go to fucking business school like my dad and do something I hate for the rest of my life. Let's do something that feels good, this one fucking time."  
"Hell yeah!" Dewees fist pumped and ramped up the volume to the radio so The Misfits would blast out of the shitty speakers. He shoved his half empty pack at Frank and he lit two and handed one back to Dewees so he didn't have to try to drive and light up at the same time. They only cracked the windows because the cool air was okay when they were standing or hobbling across lawns, but whipping into the heaterless car at 75 mph was a little too chilly for Frank's fucked up lungs.  
They drove for nearly an hour and a half, 'til they'd hit New York state line, and then NYC, and then finally parked in front of a grungy, abandoned looking old theater with a marque and everything, filled with a mash people at the old school ticket booth. Dewees smirked and held up two tickets, which he'd somehow acquired without Frank's knowledge so they edged through the crowd, men and women dressed in spikes and chains and dark colors, when they were even wearing clothes. There was more fishnet then he'd seen at the docking bay that time his grandpa took him sailing, and there was hair in every color of the rainbow. It was _amazing_. Frank wasn't really allowed to be around these types of people in his daily life, and ever since he'd gotten caught playing Pencey Prep last year, his mom had kept him on a much shorter leash, so his gig time had been cut too.  
The band was already playing, guitars echoing around through fucked speakers and drums banging hard while the singer ripped his voice and soul apart at the same time. They were too far away for Frank's taste, so he leaned up on his toes to reach James' ear and said, "Gonna get closer!"  
James nodded, "Plan on getting smashed so my mom will be here to get us in about an hour!"  
Frank nodded and they shoved their knuckles together before separating. Miss Dewees was the literal coolest and Frank owed her his whole life for all the shit she'd kept from his mom for him. Dewees had a few friends in New York so Frank didn't worry much about his car. Dewees always had a plan for everything, which was one of the reasons Frank and he were such great friends. Dewees didn't mind looking out for his stupid ass when he got himself into bad situations.  
Frank dove into the crowd after he lost sight of James, letting himself get lost in it. It was great, being surrounded by grungy people who didn't give a single fuck if they made him bleed, didn't duck their head when he went by or shy away from him. When they shoved him, it wasn't because he was a fag or because he wasn't Catholic enough for them.  
He felt at home.  
The guys on the stage got bigger as he got closer, until he was in the nosebleed zone, right in front of the stage and just inches from being pulled into the moshpit. Usually he'd be in the pit, that was his favorite spot in the whole world, pressure on all sides, being shoved and shoving, almost falling and having to catch himself or let someone do it for him. Usually, he'd have gone straight for it, but his ribs were still recovering from the last gig two months ago and if he got hurt again he'd never be able to hide it from his mom.  
Jesus, Jersey shows could get pretty hard, but with the ban on rock shows in effect in New York, they weren't fucking around.  
The band looked cool from far away, but up close they were electric. The bassist was tall and willowy, with messy hair and a look of concentration on his face as he played, eyes closed and leaning back, head thrown up like he was having the best blow job of his life. There were two guitarists, but the lead was who caught Frank's attention. His hair was wild and bushy, thick thighs flexing but his stance stone solid while he headbanged and moved his fingers along string and frets like they were flying. The drummer was in his element too, eyes staring at nothing but his hands, looking pissed and ready to show the drum set just how much so. They worked well together, a fucking unit or something, in time and perfect, playing to each other behind the singer's back, or to him while he sang.  
The singer, when Frank finally trailed his eyes to him, caught his attention last, but kept it. He looked _wild_ and wicked, like a nightmare-turned-wet-dream, his jeans ripped to shit, even along his crotch and showing the bared skin of his thigh. His pale face was bashed up on one side like he'd gotten into a brawl with a left fist instead of a person, but his knuckles and fingers were scraped and bruised, wrapped around the mic like he was holding on for dear fucking life, and his jet black hair was just as wild as him, sticking up in every direction. He was screaming, on his knees and touching himself, moving his hips into his gloved hand, ripping his fucking soul apart while he put on a show for the crowd. People were going _crazy_ for it. Frank was going crazy for it. He wanted to lick the leather of his glove, bite and lick at his fingers, his teeth-bitten lips. _Fuck,_ Frank wanted to fuck him.  
He wondered if it was showing on his face, because when their eyes met, the singer didn't look away. Instead, a slow smirk slid across his lips, and he purred out his next line. It was about blowing your fucking brains out, but the way he said it made Frank's dick twitch in his jeans and when he crawled across the stage to the edge, hips moving slow and sensual with each movement of his knees, Frank couldn't have cared less about what the fuck he was singing into the mic.  
Frank looked around carefully, but no, he was the only one the singer could be looking at because no one else was in Frank's little niche, right in the storm of thrashing bodies, but close enough to the stage to be relatively safe from flying arms. It was like there was the crowd, surrounding them, and then there was _them_ , like Frank was the only fucking person worth looking at. It made his knees go a little wonky, for just a few seconds. No one had ever looked at him like that.  
That dirty smirk still on his face, still on his fucking knees in front of everyone, for _Frank_ , nearly driving him crazy, the man nodded slowly and pointed at himself, trailed his finger from the hole in his crotch, up his thighs, his stomach, his chest, his neck, all the fucking way to his lips. Then he pointed it at Frank and raised an eyebrow, like he was asking a question without words. Frank didn't really know how to react. Fucking _yes_ , he would love to do what the fuck ever with this dude, but if anyone from school saw him or found out in any way, shape, or form that 'fag' actually applied to him, he was fucked in a bad way, let alone if his mom found out. But then again...  
Frank nodded, feeling his own lips curl into a coy smile. He saw the want flood the singer's face, the flush deepen along his neck, and couldn't help but lick his lips and watch the guy's reaction, up on stage for the audience to see.  
They played three more songs and between the first and second of those three, the bassist kicked the singer and gave him a pointed glare, like he was telling him to get back to playing the fucking show or something, so he gave Frank an appreciative look and a wink before he went back to working up the crowd. His voice was higher but suited to his songs, sort of nasally and Frank loved how it sounded like another instrument, like it belonged to the music.  
By the third song, he was back near Frank and they were locking gazes again, eyes only for each other. It made Frank feel hot and cold at the same time, a shiver going up his spine as sweat dripped down his neck. They were so busy looking at each other that when the rhythm guitarist went down, neither saw what happened, just heard the yell of pain. The singer had to turn away and the song went to a halt as they gathered around the guitarist.  
"FUCK!" The guitarist was saying, his afro shaking with his head as he curled around his wrist. He said something else, but it was too low for Frank to hear so he waited almost impatiently, slightly worried at the look of displeasure on his singer's face. He sort of hoped that the guitarist hadn't hurt himself too bad, he'd fucked up his wrist once and hadn't been able to play for nearly a month. It had been absolute Hell.  
Finally, the guitarist carefully stood up and the singer clasped him on the back and he exited the stage. The singer brought the mic back to his bloody lips and made a sighing noise, dramatic and exaggerated.  
"Sorry, guys. Someone threw a fucking bottle near his feet and tripped Joe up. He can't play anymore so we'll have to pull out a song early."  
The crowd began to boo loudly and the singer pulled a face, dramatically sad. He was theatrical. Frank couldn't stop staring at his pouting lips.  
"How 'bout this? Our last song was a cover. Anyone here got a recording of our Desolation Row and know how to play a fuckin' guitar?"  
A roar went up but Frank felt his grin fall into place and he waved his hand to catch the singer's attention. He hadn't played a show since Pencey broke up last year, but Dewees hadn't been joking when he'd teased Frank. He really could play the shit out of this song.  
"Oh, oh?" His singer smirked again, small and promising to do amazing things to him. He reached out and Frank reached up, and they levered him onto the stage together. They pressed close, momentum carrying Frank into his chest and their unbroken eye contact making it more intimate. He smelled like coffee and nicotine and Frank wanted to inhale and inhale and let the scent sink into his fucking bones. He wondered if that was what he'd smell like, if he was allowed to fucking smoke when he wanted and could have more than a single cup of coffee bummed off Dewees a day.  
"You know our stuff?"  
"This one." Frank said, "You guys fuckin' killed it. Thought I could kill it too, so I played it."  
"And could you? Kill it?" His singer asked, breath along the hot skin of his neck.  
"Wanna find out?"  
"Fuck, you are pretty." The singer said instead of answering.  
"Prettier wrapped around a fucking guitar." Frank grumbled, trying to hide his flush, "Gonna let me?"  
"I ain't stoppin' ya."  
And then the shit _licked his fucking face_ , dragged his tongue from Frank's cheek to his temple and Frank's eyes fucking _fluttered_. He didn't hesitate to bite at his jaw, leave his own mark on that pale, flushed skin.  
His singer fucking moaned into the mic, for the whole room to hear, and the crowd went insane.  
Frank just smirked, kissed his flushed cheek and grabbed the guitar off the floor.  
Desolation Row starts up after a '1-2-3' count from his singer and Frank hadn't played a show in so long but it's like he'd never left the stage. Playing was what he was always _meant_ to do, and he had always known that, and how he'd ever let himself forget it was beyond him.  
His singer owned the crowd, had them screaming and yelling so loud it took Frank a minute to hear the yells of _COPS!_ and _RUN!_ when they started resounding nearly a minute into the song.  
When he did finally hear it, his eyes caught the boys in blue at the edges of the crowd almost before he started looking for them. They were fighting people with night sticks, vicious and brutal, but still losing due to sheer numbers, until back up broke through. None of the band stopped, though they had all obviously seen the pigs too, so neither did Frank - because he wasn't a fucking pansy and the dark, lusty looks his singer kept shooting back at him were a trap too sweet to escape.  
The police made it to the stage just as the song was ending, sirens blaring outside and punk rockers scattering and officers crawling onto the stage with night sticks at the ready. The guitarist went down in a flailing pile of guitar feedback to end the song and Frank slammed his own guitar into the drum set, scared the approaching officer long enough for the drummer to jump up and get away from the edge of the stage and to the relative safety of center stage before he was tackled. The bassist went next and he put up no fight because he was too skinny to do much, anyway, though he obviously wasn't pleased about it. They were a little rough with him but he was treated pretty delicately compared to how the drummer and guitarist had been subdued.  
Frank, on the other hand, had never been one to take a beating lying down so when one of the officers came at him, he didn't hesitate to show his Jersey roots and ram his shoulder into the man's stomach. They both went down and Frank took a stinging blow to his shoulder, earning himself a pretty fucking spectacular bruise later on, before his singer was next to him, kicking the cop in the side and dragging Frank up.  
"Pretty handy with your fist, huh, sugar?" He breathed, sounding roughed up and ready to go.  
"Pretty handy is what I _wanted_ to be, asshole." Frank knocked their foreheads together, "Can't do that in _jail_."  
"We'll make due." His singer said, then leaned down and shoved their mouths together.  
Fireworks and magic.  
Or maybe that was just what the screaming around them sounded like, Frank didn't fucking care. He wrapped his arms around his singer, kissed back as much as he could with the cops milling around them. His singer pulled him close, settled a hand in his hair and tilted his head up, gentled the kiss until it was their lips moving together with intent, his other hand cupping Frank's jaw.  
For a first kiss, Frank hoped it set the tone for any other kisses they shared.  
And then they were being pulled apart roughly by their arms, and his singer was whispering to _'just go with them, don't get yourself killed, sugar.'_  
Frank didn't want to, he really didn't fucking want to, but he did. He let them cuff his hands and march him out to a big, white van. Around him, a few other punks were being arrested, including the band. He was the first to be shoved in and he slid to the back with a glare. The guitarist came in and set across from him and gave him a big, toothy smile. The drummer was next, settling in comfortably next to Frank, stoic and silent. The bassist, next to the drummer, looking pretty unhurt for being one of the last to be shoved in before, finally and to Frank's relief, his singer was shoved into the van. He looked beaten up, a few more bruises than he'd had before and the split lip reopened, but he looked otherwise fine.  
Frank tried not to show his relief, shifting so he could stick his tongue out at the scowling, bruised officer that came to slam the door on the van. He kept the brave face until the doors were closed, and then he slumped down in his seat because he was going to be in so much fucking trouble when they called his mom. Worse, he was in _New York_ , nearly two hours away. She was gonna flip her fucking lid. He'd never see daylight again.  
Worse, or maybe this was the _good_ news, he was going to lose his fucking scholarship.  
"That was some hardcore playing, before the pigs broke it up." The guitarist said, turning to look at Frank in the dim glow of the light on the ceiling. The van started rumbling and then moving and Frank just gave up because he was in trouble anyway, what was even the point of stopping now?  
"Thanks. Haven't played in awhile. Sorry I was rusty."  
"You play often? I'm Ray."  
"Used to be in a band, actually. Broke up last year, though. I'm Frank."  
"I liked the part where you slammed the guitar into my kit." The drummer grunted, voice softer than Frank had imagined it, "Saved me from a nasty fall. I'm Bob."  
"You guys rocked." Frank grinned, big and wide, "Totally amazing."  
"Thanks," said the bassist.  
"That's Mikey." Ray motioned with his shoulder and Mikey leaned forward and wiggled his eyebrows in hello from around Bob. The best part was that nothing else on his face moved, not even his glasses.  
Frank grinned back, then looked at his singer expectantly.  
"And this asshole is Gee," Mikey rolled his eyes, "Sorry he got you arrested."  
"I didn't get him arrested!" His singer, Gee, said with feeling, "He came with us willingly."  
"Your name is Gee?" Frank said instead of saying that he actually sort of _did_ get him arrested, seducing him and all, though Frank didn't mind it one fucking bit.  
"Gerard." His singer said, another smirk playing on his lips and his eyes trailing over Frank quickly.  
"Frank." Frank said again, unnecessarily, because if he didn't say _some_ thing he would literally throw himself into _Gerard's_ lap.  
"Nice playing out there, Frankie." Gerard drawled, voice flirty and completely ignoring his bands' excessive eye rolling, "You said you were in a band?"  
"Pencey Prep. They weren't huge or anything but-"  
"Hey! Pencey!" Mikey said, sounding vaguely excited, "I know them! You guys were great!"  
"Thanks, man." Frank tried not to blush because he wasn't _four_ and Pencey had been a long time ago, but it still felt great to hear they'd been good.  
"So, Frank," Ray started, but trailed off when the van came to a rumbling halt and there was a bang against the side of the wall, between Ray and Gerard. The doors were thrown open and they were all marched out of the van and into the big police station. Frank would have been nervous, but the other guys looked calm and didn't even put up a fuss when they were being separated. The only time in the nearly twenty minutes they were being booked that any of them showed any emotion other than amusement was when an officer slid her hand down Mikey's arm flirtatiously and Gerard snapped at her to leave his brother alone. Frank thought it was sort of hot, seeing him all protective and using his intimidating look to keep someone he cared about safe, and he wanted to somehow tell him that but he hoped Gerard had figured it out when their eyes had met a few seconds later and Gerard had gone a little pink.  
When all was said and done, Frank was in a cell with Gerard and Mikey and next door held Ray and Bob.  
Without words, Mikey went to the corner closest to the other cell and he and Ray started talking, maybe deciding on who their one call would be, or who was paying bail this time once the judge had been roused. Bob just laid down and used his and Ray's jackets as a pillow.  
Before Frank could really decide what he was going to do, if he’d have to call his mom to come and get him, if he’d have to face the judge, before his head could really start spinning with panic, Gerard had a light grip on his wrist and was pulling him over to the opposite side of the cell, pressing him to the smooth white wall and leaning in, close enough to brush their lips together but not quite kiss him.  
Frank felt his control snap almost immediately and any other thoughts went out the window. He closed the space between them, leaned up on his toes and wrapped his free arm around Gerard’s shoulders. He felt Gerard’s arm go around his waist, the other pinning Frank’s wrist to the wall by his side as the kiss got more violent, until his lungs were screaming and he was lightheaded but in the best way. When they pulled apart for a few seconds, he could make out the red mark on Gerard’s jaw, small but fucking there and bright for everyone to see. Frank pulled him down for another hard kiss without even thinking about it. Better to get as much as he could now because once his mom would out about this, he was never going to see daylight again.  
It clicked.  
He yanked his head back and bashed it into the wall, groaning unhappily, cursing everything in the world except Gerard, or maybe Gerard most of all, "Fuck!"  
Gerard moved to his neck, nipping and biting skin and pressing hot, distracting kisses to Frank's pulse, saying, "What, what," softly as he did so, like this could somehow go farther than a heated make out session in a jail cell with his band less than fifteen feet away and police milling around in plain sight.  
"I'm in so much fucking trouble," Frank muttered, tilting his head to let Gerard press sweeter kisses than before to his jaw.  
"No one to pay bail?" Gerard hummed softly, a few keys right by his ear. It made Frank's knees weak. He wished they were somewhere, anywhere else right then. Somewhere with privacy and maybe a bed. A fucking couch would do, a blanket on the floor, he wasn't picky, not right then.  
Frank flushed, sweaty from the heat of the station and red already, shrugged, and figured it was now or never to tell Gerard he was feeling up barely-legal jailbait.  
"My mom...she's gonna be so pissed off at me. I'm grounded for life when I have to call her."  
"Grounded?" Gerard asked, not sounding totally amused or disgusted, just a little curious, "Just how old are you, sugar?"  
"Twenty one," Frank tried, sounding a little hopeful. He'd always looked younger than he was, but he hoped that the eyeliner Dewees had let him borrow would age him up.  
"Try again," Gerard laughed, pressing another kiss to his jaw, right where it met his neck.  
"Seventeen." Frank finally grumbled, when Gerard had waited long enough for the answer that he'd slowed and then stopped the kisses completely, "And to make it worse, I fucking snuck out and drove two hours to get here because it's my birthday, and-"  
"Your birthday is on Halloween!?" Gerard interrupted, sounding excited. Frank couldn't help but laugh a little, shove at his arm, but not enough to make him step away.  
"That's not the point, dickhead. But yeah, my birthday is on Halloween."  
“Birthday kiss?” Gerard asked, grinning this stupid, lopsided grin with these fucking small teeth. Frank rolled his eyes but he couldn't stop his own dumb smile, leaning up to take the offered kiss, which Gerard gave him with great enthusiasm.  
“B-but, anyway,” He said once he was able to talk himself into pulling away from him, licking his lips, “They took my wallet, so they're gonna find my ID, and then my mom’s number and she’s gonna be so fucking pissed. Grounded for life. She'll probably call the school and I'll have to do like fifteen thousand hail mary’s or some shit,” Frank groaned again, shoving his face in Gerard’s shoulder, “Just kill me.”  
“Oh, a catholic school boy?” Gerard smirked, Frank could fucking feel it, so he hit his shoulder again.  
“Shut up. So not helping.”  
“What’s wrong, sugar?” He asked, sounding like the fucking flirt he was, voice all low and breathy, “You secretly a stiff behind that mask of rebellion? Straight laced boy tryina’ have some fun, maybe?”  
“No,” Frank said firmly, pulling away just enough to pull him back in for a hard kiss, more teeth and blood from Gerard’s lip than anything, “Definitely not straight.”  
Gerard just laughed and slid his hand from Frank’s hip to his ass. Frank barely stifled a moan, much to the obvious disgust of the passing officers. Gerard smelled like coffee and nicotine and the fucking rebellion Frank’s been trying to snuff out in himself for so long that it was like finally breathing even as Gerard’s tongue and lips took his breath away. All he could do was knot his fingers in Gerard’s fucked up, crazy hair and bite at the unbroken parts of his lips and hold on for the ride of his fucking life.  
He was pressed completely to the wall, shirt lifted a little where Gerard had wiggled his hand onto the hot skin of his back and on his tip toes just so he wouldn't wrap his legs around Gerard’s waist, fuck where they were, when a grumpy looking officer banged hard on the bars to get their attention.  
Gerard smirked at the near silent whine of disappointment Frank couldn't hold back when they broke apart, but he carefully stepped away from Frank when the officer’s demanding voice broke through their little bubble, there in the corner of the dirty cell with Gerard’s brother and friends close by.  
“Frank Iero,” He snapped, “It’s your lucky day. Your poor mom showed up to plead for you to keep this stint off your file.”  
“He means,” Gerard whispered into Frank’s ear, “She greased a head pig’s hand.”  
“I sort of don't want to go.” Frank whispered back, eyes cutting away so he didn’t see Gerard’s reaction. Fuck, it had just been a random hook up that got taken to a bit of a strange setting, but Frank sort of liked talking to Gerard. The stupid banter between kisses had been fun and he’d of liked to know a little more about him. Once he left the cell, he probably wasn't gonna see Gerard ever again and that would sort of suck. A lot, actually. Not to even mention the shit that would hit the fan when he got in the car with his mom. She was gonna slap the shit out of him and make him sell every vinyl he fucking owned for this.  
Gerard’s fingers found his chin and lifted his face back up, so he could plant a stupid, little peck to Frank’s lips. He was smirking a little, looking amused but strangely charmed.  
“Iero, right? I'll find you, sugar. You won't get away that easy. Not with a tongue like yours, paired with those fucking princess eyes.”  
Frank laughed a little, feeling a little giddy, “I’m in Jersey. My friend said you guys were a Jersey band.”  
“We are. Where in Jersey?”  
“Belleville.”  
“No shit? Mikey and I grew up there, before we moved to New York.” Gerard grinned, “I'll find you, sugar. And we can pick up where we left off.”  
“Where we left off, huh?” Frank rolled his eyes a little, leaned up to kiss him again, slow and deep and as fucking sensual as he could make it, “Don't fucking forget me, asshole, or I'll find some other band to fuck around with. Got it? And don't ever call me _princess_ again.”  
Gerard, eyes wide and a little surprised but fucking burning with want, nodded, “Don't leave Jersey anytime soon.”  
“Find me.” Frank said firmly, and then let himself be led out of the cell, down a few hallways, and into the lobby, tensing up and putting on his battle gear to face his mom's rage. Instead of his mom, though, were James and Miss- _fucking_ -Dewees, who stood next to an uncomfortable looking officer, big tears leaking from Miss Dewees’ eyes and her hands clasped together.  
“Oh, Frankie!” She sobbed when he came into view and she rushed forward to enfold him in her arms and hug him to her chest tightly. He flailed a little, and then wrapped his arms around her waist and hid his face so they couldn't see his smile. Miss Dewees could cry on cue like a fucking pro, and her crocodile tears had gotten both she and Dewees out a number of speeding tickets, much to Frank’s amusement and jealousy.  
“I'm so _upset_ with you, Frankie! Your father and I were so _worried_! Thank God these fine officers of the law were able to find you! You are _grounded_ for the rest of your life, mister! The rest of your life!”  
“I'm sorry, ma'am.” Frank said timidly, looking down when she finally released him.  
“Worrying mom like that,” Dewees said severely, “I can't even _believe_ you, Frank.”  
“I know.” Frank scuffed the floor with his shoe, trying to look as ashamed as he possibly could while still kiss ruffled and flushed, still covered in smeared eyeliner and tasting a little blood on his lip that he wasn't completely sure was his.  
“I’m very, _very_ sorry, officers.” Miss Dewees touched the officer at Frank’s side, her fingers brushing his arm, “Thank you so much for letting him go like this. I just don't know what I'd do if-if- _My_ Frankie! A _criminal_!” She sobbed and covered her face. Frank wrapped his arm around her, looking shamefaced.  
“It’s no problem,” The officer said weakly, sounding a little overwhelmed by her emotionalism, “As long as he doesn't do it again. He'll be fined most definitely if we catch him again.”  
“He understands.” James said firmly and put his hand on Frank’s shoulder, squeezing, “And it won't happen again, officer. My brother can be a real idiot sometimes, but he's a good kid.”  
The three of them walked out, Frank trying to keep his face straight and Miss Dewees rubbing her eyes elegantly. James was having just as much trouble as Frank but all three of them managed to keep it together until they had piled into Miss Dewees’ car and had driven out of the parking lot before they broke. Frank giggled first and then Miss Dewees was braying and so was James. She had to pull into the parking lot of a closed grocery store before she crashed the car just so they could all collapse into their mirth. By the time they'd calmed down, her cheeks were covered in real tears and James was gasping hard for breathe. Frank had somehow ended up laying down, curled up over his aching gut and wiping at his eyes as he hiccupped with the last of his laughter.  
“That was fucking close, kids.” Miss Dewees said, voice high with her laughter, when she'd finally calmed down enough to speak.  
“Fuck,” Frank agreed, “You're tellin’ me. I thought I was a fucking goner when they said my mom was there.”  
“Shit, you're lucky I fucking saw you,” Dewees said, “All wrapped up in that singer, huh? Shoulda figured you'd fuck someone while we were out of town.”  
“Shut up,” Frank blushed, “It isn't like that. I mean. Gerard is...he’s gonna find me. He said so.”  
“Oh, Frankie.” Miss Dewees looked at him through the mirror, pulling back out into traffic in the direction of Jersey, “You know how musicians are.”  
She'd know best. James’ father had been a musician.  
“I know,” Frank said, feeling the laughter drain from him slowly, “But he seemed...different, you know? Real.”  
She just gave him another look, not pitying but something a little kinder than that. His eyes went to James for support but James wouldn’t look back at him so Frank just bit his lip to hold back a sigh and changed the subject to something a little lighter.  
He made it hope with barely an hour to spare. He'd showered, scrubbed his face to remove the makeup and kissed-out look on his face and hidden the clothes at the Dewees house to be washed of cigarette and weed smoke and blood. He'd crawled into bed with a poptart and ate it a piece at a time while he thought about Gerard. By the time the poptart was gone and he’d drank four glasses of water, he’d barely laid down to sleep when he could hear the sounds of his mother getting up.  
She wouldn't be in for another few hours to wake him up for church at nearly eleven, so he let himself fall asleep to the image of Gerard’s eyes, outlined in black and bruised, and dreamed of the fireworks and magic.  
He woke up feeling groggy but not too shitty or sore, well enough to let his mom drag him to church and then to lunch. He was actually pretty happy.  
“Honey, did you sleep well? You seem brighter, today.”  
“Hm? Oh, yeah. Just...you know. Friend said he might stop by in a few days, say hi.”  
“That’s nice,” She smiled, “Tell him hello for me, when you see him. Do I know him?”  
“Nah,” Frank shook his head, trying to wipe the smile off his stupid face, “He’s a...new friend. Whatever.”  
The first week that went by with no word from Gerard didn't make Frank nervous. In fact, Frank stayed in an almost constant state of excitement. He liked Gerard, liked how Gerard had made him feel, happy and light and like he remembered what he wanted to do with his life. He'd told his mom about the scholarship and about how he wasn't going to take it, no matter how much she cried and raged at him, and she only cried a little and hid her disappointment pretty well. He didn't want to go into business, he wanted to be a fucking musician. He wanted to fucking travel and play music, and do something worth all the shit the world was going to throw at him anyway. He wanted to _live_ his life, and he had Gerard to thank for reminding him of that.  
The second week was much the same. James had started to give him worried looks, a little cautious, a little hopeful too, like he wanted Gerard to be different a well. Miss Dewees never asked about Gerard, or if he’d ever shown up like he’d promised. She did start sending vegetarian dishes with Dewees for lunch at school though, a lot more than she usually did. Frank didn't let it affect him. He, to use a word, trusted Gerard, even after only knowing him a few hours. He seemed real, much realer than a lot of people Frank was surrounded by. Realer than Frank could be, at least.  
By the third week, he’d dimmed a little but remained hopeful.  
“Frankie…” Dewees said, when he came to visit and turned Frank’s stereo on, only to discover the Desolation Row cover had been playing, “Are you sure…”  
“Just leave it.” Frank said firmly, feeling his stomach sink a little, “Let’s not talk about it.”  
Dewees dropped it, but when he left, his hand twitched towards the stereo like he wanted to take the tap with him.  
The fourth week, Frank had stopped hoping. He tried not to let anyone see how sad he was, because he really had been looking forward to getting to know Gerard and, after almost a month of psyching himself up for him, he was more disappointed then he would have been if he’d just lost hope as soon as he’d gotten into Miss Dewees’ car.  
He spent the night at James’ house and she made him peanut butter cookies and lactose-free chocolate milk to ease his teenage heartbreak.  
“The angst.” James said dramatically, trying to lighten Frank’s mood, “It’s like Hamlet.”  
“It’s nothing like Hamlet, what the fuck,” Frank sighed and tried for a smile, “It’s fucking fine. You guys warned me. Never trust a musician.”  
“Never ever.” Miss Dewees said firmly, “But it’s good, baby. That you have such a trusting heart. He must of been some kisser.”  
“He really, really was.” Frank said miserably. She kissed his head and James gave him another cookie and neither said anything when Frank roughly rubbed his eyes and bit into the cookie roughly.  
Gerard probably hadn't even looked for him. He was fucking jailbait in New York and nearly two hours away, why the fuck would Gerard try to find him? Two hours was too far for a booty call and there was no way a guy like that would want to, what, _date?_ , a guy like Frank.  
Nearly four days went by and Frank made himself get over it because he was seven-fucking-teen and his first broken heart was just something he was going to have to experience sometime. At least he’d figured out what he wanted to work towards. He couldn’t be too mad at Gerard, because without him he’d be filling out forms to enroll into a business school early.  
He was thinking about that on the Friday, walking out of fucking school with his knees still aching and weak from having kneeled for after-school mass.  
“Fuck,” He snapped when he slammed into James’ back, who had stopped suddenly in front of him, nearly knocking his weak knees right the fuck out from under him, “James, what the fuck-”  
“Frankie.” Dewees said, voice light and teasing, “Guess who finally fucking showed up.”  
“What, did my mom decide to pick us up instead of making us walk?” He asked distractedly, stepping around James to see. He pulled his bag from his back to dig out his phone, only when he saw the hottest motorcycle he’d ever seen and a familiar figure in a familiar leather jacket leaning against it, he nearly dropped the bag.  
“You know how many Ieros' live in Jersey, sugar? A fucking ton.”  
“We're a big family, ‘specially in Belleville.”  
“Yeah, about a month’s worth of ‘em to search through to find one punk rock Italian.” Gerard smirked, slow and pretty and pleased, and much fucking brighter than the sunlight.  
Frank wanted to kiss him again. Instead, he shoved his bag back over his shoulder and knocked against Dewees with a grin as he walked over to Gerard, “What the fuck took so long, loser?”  
“Sorry, Frankie.” Gerard apologized, looking him up and down as he walked closer, “My contacts had a little trouble tracking down my favorite Italian. But here I am. Happy to see me?”  
“Whatever,” Frank didn't stop until he was right in Gerard’s space, looking up at him through his lashes, licking his lips and trying to remember just how Gerard had tasted before, “You found me. Now what?”  
“I said we'd pick up where we left off, didn't I?”  
“And where was that?” Frank breathed, leaning up to tease him a little. Fuck the rest of the school, he didn't care, he’d been waiting too fucking long for this kiss.  
“Somewhere like this.” Gerard said quietly, leaning down to kiss him softly, gentle and sweet and fucking intimate. It took Frank’s breath away, and Gerard wouldnt’ give it back until they were fucking swaying, until their arms had hooked around each other and Frank was practically pinning him to his own bike, leaning on him for support.  
“Fuck,” Frank nearly whimpered, not that he’d admit it.  
“Fuck.” Gerard agreed just as softly, brushing his fingers through his head, “Would it be weird to say I kind of missed you?”  
“Is it weird that I kind of missed you too?”  
Gerard grinned, a little shy this time and not like his hot smirks but just as pleasing to Frank, and they would have continued, right fucking there in the front of the fucking Catholic school who had daily contact with his fucking mother, had it not been for trustworthy James fucking Dewees.  
“Frankie!” James cried, sounding amused and a little scandalized, “If you don't get your asses out of here, the school’ll call your fucking mom and my mom can’t pretend to be her to them.”  
“Shit,” Frank grunted, sounding a little pissed, “This sucks.”  
“Wanna go somewhere?” Gerard offered, sounding a little pissed himself.  
“You wanna take me somewhere?” Frank couldn't help the grin, and he only blushed a little when a matching one slid onto Gerard’s face.  
“You wanna leave with a stranger, stiff?”  
“I ain’t no stiff,” Frank pinched him, “And I could take you.”  
Gerard laughed, dumb and dorky and it made Frank grin wider. Gerard just shoved his helmet, black with rat fucking bats because Gerard was a total dork, how had he tricked Frank into thinking otherwise for even a moment, “Fine, Daredevil. Just wear that.”  
Frank nodded, and went to do so, before James grabbed his wrist and squeezed firmly to get his attention.  
“Call me,” James said firmly, looking serious. He waited for Frank to nod before he gave Gerard a firm look, pointing two fingers at his eyes and then at Gerard, “and I’m watching for you, Mister. I’ve got pics and I know who you are if he turns up missing.”  
“Promise.” Gerard said, offering his hand to him, “No kidnappings and murders in the forest.”  
“You're both dumb.” Frank decided when they shook hands hard, trying to keep the smile off his face to show them how serious he was about thinking they were just giant losers.  
"Oh, hey," Gerard said, snapping, "Before we go, I wanted to show you something. You made it into the paper, sugar."  
"What?" Frank asked, confused, as Gerard turned to dig through one of the storage compartments on the bike. Finally, he pulled a paper out, dated a few days after the interrupted show. The headline read 'BAN ON MUSIC - BAN ON YOUNG LOVE?', and underneath the headline, blazed on the front fucking page of The New York Times, was a picture of their kiss. Police streamed around them, Mikey and Ray and Bob were all on the ground around them and the cop at their feet was getting up, night stick at the ready to aim. Gerard had his hands cupping Frank's face, kissing him carefully, fucking tender like they were some married couple who happened to be into eyeliner, bruised faces and leather jackets with ripped up skinny jeans. Frank's arms were around Gerard's waist, holding their bodies close together. Underneath was a caption, reading, "young punk couple kissing one last time before being brutally ripped apart by feral officers during underground rock show". Next to the kiss was a picture of them being ripped apart, and fuck it did look much more painful than it had been, at least for Frank. They were straining from each other. Frank wanted to blush at the look on his face in the picture, some weird mix of worry and anger and want. Gerard wasn't much better, but there was a lot more worry involved.  
"Wow." Dewees said softly, "Look, it says the council is going to vote on the ban again!"  
"I fucking know!" Gerard nodded, folding the paper back up and stowing it away, "And Frankie and I are the new fucking V-J Kiss. This ban has been sweeping the nation but with pictures like this, with stories like that, with the pigs being shown for what they are." Gerard grinned, big and bright, and Frank wanted to follow him anywhere in that second.  
"Come on, Enjolras." Frank rolled his eyes, but it was unnecessarily fond and amused. He couldn't help but be a little flattered that _he_ was the fucking one in that picture with Gerard, "Take me to the diner downtown. We can discuss our next public kiss."  
"Anything for you, sugar," Gerard cooed at him.  
He flipped him off, but he was smiling too big to be taken fucking seriously, God damn it, so he just waited for Gerard to get on so he could sit behind him. He pressed his chest to Gerard’s back, not able to stop his crotch from pressing to Gerard’s ass and not even wanting to. He wanted to be as close as he could. He put the helmet on and adjusted to it, wrapped his arms around Gerard’s waist and squeezed tight to show he was ready.  
“Lean a little with me when we turn.” Gerard said, voice amused and pleased. And then they were off and Dewees was fucking waving his handkerchief at them like they were going on a voyage and not the fucking diner across town, or something.  
Frank held tight to Gerard, leaned his head on his shoulder and watched the cars zoom by as the air whipped across his clothes and Gerard’s. He wondered, offhandedly, what the people in the cars thought as they zoomed by; a hooligan in a leather jacket with yet another busted lip and greasy, spiked up hair and a fucking teenager with a Catholic uniform from the huge church school at the end of the block, pressed as close together as they could safely be.  
For the first time in awhile, Frank realized he didn't fucking care. He just pressed closer and leaned with Gerard when he made the turn towards downtown.

**Author's Note:**

> So let me just; This has DR! Gee, INO!Frank, and maybe if you squint pre-Killjoy 'verse. Sorta proud.


End file.
